Mama Put My Guns in the Ground
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: A long future!fic where Sam, Dean, and Castiel have retired from hunting and live together in Wyoming. Pointless feel-good fic with lots of love and cuddles. No slash. Followed by the story "Blessed are the Pure in Heart."


AN: Apparently, I have a thing for happy post-retirement curtain!fic where Sam and Dean stay together the rest of their lives. This is basically one, long plotless and pointless feel-good piece.

No slash. Primary nonsexual/nonromantic partnership between Sam and Dean. Majorly important, touchy-feeling friendship between Dean and Castiel. Mentions of female OCs and het relations.

Asexual!Cas. Implied aromantic!Dean.

Do me a favor and leave a review. I really like this fic of mine.

* * *

Mama Put My Guns in the Ground

* * *

Dean steps out onto his front porch to see a cool fog obscuring the land around the house. It swathes the mountains in the distance too, and between their peaks, he can make out faded pink and orange sky that won't last long under the weight of the storm clouds. He takes a deep breath and smells the coming rain, the air already wet. It's chilly. He's dressed in his jeans, thermal shirt, and a flannel. His hair is damp from the shower. The mug of coffee in his hand is still steaming.

He turns his head to the right and sees Cas sitting in his chair on the porch next door, knitting. The angel is aware of Dean's presence but doesn't pay him any attention yet. He stares down at the yarn and the big needles working in his hands. Dean made fun of him when he picked up the hobby but now, it's just one of those things that Cas does. Last winter, he actually sold a few blankets to ranchers in the area who wanted them for their horses.

"Morning," Dean says, lifting his mug to his lips to test the heat of the coffee. Still a little too hot.

"Good morning," says Cas. Dean can never tell the difference between his voice gravelly from sleep and his ordinary tone.

"Looks like rain today."

Castiel doesn't answer.

"You want breakfast?" says Dean. "Sam's cooking it up right now."

"I may steal a biscuit, if you're having some."

"All right." Dean moves to the western side of his porch, closest to Castiel's, and peers at the land behind the houses. The fog is thick. He glances over at the angel and sees that the yarn in Castiel's lap is a jade green. "What are you working on?"

"Something for Mrs. Tanner's daughter. She wants a blanket big enough to last through the child's infancy."

Amy Tanner—pretty, young woman who lives with her husband just outside town—had her first baby five or six months ago. Nice people. Dean always likes running into her at the grocery store, especially when she has the baby with her.

"I hope you're not charging her," says Dean.

"She wanted to pay me a nominal fee," says Cas. "I insisted the blanket's a gift."

Dean sips at his coffee again, now satisfied with the temperature. Almost too hot but not enough to burn his tongue. He takes a few swallows with pleasure. Nothing like the first cup of coffee early in the morning.

"You want some coffee?" he asks. "Sam made a full pot."

"Maybe with that biscuit," says Cas. He finally looks up at Dean, those blue eyes clear and penetrating even from where he sits. "I've already had two cups of tea."

"Tea," Dean grumbles. They've had this conversation before. "What kind of self-respecting man drinks tea?"

"You are not opposed to it when you or your brother get sick, according to Sam." Castiel resumes his knitting.

Dean shakes his head. "Forty years old, and that kid still doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut."

A few minutes pass in silence, as Dean drinks his coffee and Castiel knits.

"What are your plans for the day?" Castiel asks.

Most of the Winchester family's weekends are quiet. They like staying home, after working in town during the week. Dean's a mechanic at Big Lou's Garage and Salvage. Sam is a part-time bartender at The Wild Horse Saloon, part-time clerk at Harry's Guns and Hardware. Usually, they carpool to work, and Dean will drive or walk over to the Saloon on nights when Sam's working, have a beer and some bar food and maybe shoot a game of pool. Castiel works a few mornings a week at the small nursery run out of the only church. He is surprisingly good with small children. They flock to him intuitively, as if they can sense he's still part angel.

Dean shrugs, staring into his mug at the last of the coffee. "I don't know. Probably just hang out here, watch a movie or something. Think I'll spend a couple hours in the barn working out later. I know Sam will, unless the weather clears. You gonna join us at some point?"

Castiel spends more of the weekend with the brothers than not, but sometimes he stays in his own house to do whatever it is he does alone. Dean suspects it's some combination of praying, reading, and knitting. He would crack a joke about the angel having turned into a grandmother if not for fear of hurting Castiel's feelings.

"For breakfast," says Cas. "We'll see about the rest of the day."

Sam opens his and Dean's front door and pops his head out. "Hey. Food's ready."

"All right. Cas wants a biscuit," Dean says.

"Good, because I just pulled about a dozen of em out of the oven."

"Awesome."

Sam disappears back inside.

Dean looks at Castiel again, just as the angel stands up. Dean notices the blanket wrapped around his friend for the first time. It's the baby blue plush throw that belongs on Castiel's sofa. Dean watches as Cas descends down his porch steps with his needles and yarns cradled in the crook of one elbow and comes up Dean's steps.

* * *

It didn't come as a surprise to anyone that Sam and Dean settled down in cowboy country. Their old log house is tucked away in northwestern Wyoming, built on the flat of a valley dotted with trees and surrounded by mountains, in the midst of the Teton National Forest. Their nearest neighbor is twenty minutes out. They're out of the way enough that a stranger—a hunter—must have a damn good reason to make the trip to see them.

The main house, where Sam and Dean live, has four bedrooms, two and half bathrooms, sitting room, full kitchen with a small attached dining room, and a fireplace in the living room. The boys turned the two extra bedrooms into Sam's library and hunter's storage. The Impala sits black and beautiful as ever in the stable port attached to the barn, next to Sam's pick-up truck that's almost always caked with dry mud. The one bedroom guesthouse next door belongs to Castiel. The barn goes unused except as gym space for the brothers—and occasionally, a place for one to hide out from the other, good reasons or bad.

Castiel quit heaven for good right around the time Sam and Dean decided they'd had enough of the supernatural. They closed the gates to Hell, purged the world of Leviathans, set everything to about as right as it was before angels, demons, and the Apocalypse. Let other, younger hunters deal with the ghosts and standard nasties. Dean Winchester was pushing forty and still alive, Sam was more whole and healthy than he'd been since before resurrected him in Cold Oak, and neither one of them felt they owed humanity any God damn more. Castiel appeared in the backseat of the Impala as the brothers cut across Wyoming from the east and told them he didn't belong in Heaven and doubted he ever would again. Sam and Dean traded glances and welcomed the angel to tag along.

The ex-angel spends his free time reading voraciously and watching a lot of movies. He can play the guitar now. He's learned to cook alongside Sam, who takes care of most of the meals for himself and Dean. He eats for pleasure, for something to do, and for the company. He feels that doing laundry is therapeutic. In the last three years, he's become so human-like, that sometimes Dean just looks at him and remembers the bizarre Castiel of his long ago post-apocalyptic vision. He's glad the angel isn't a pot-smoking, orgy-having hippie. But he keeps that to himself.

* * *

Breakfast is eggs over easy, turkey sausage links, biscuits with butter and honey, plain yogurt and granola (Dean eats it because Sam nags), and more coffee. Sam leaves the window above the kitchen sink open to let in the fresh air, and they listen to the radio without talking much. Castiel eats his one biscuit with a cup of coffee, then sits at the table and knits. Dean clears the table and starts doing the dishes, while Sam settles on the couch in their sitting room with his computer. After he checks his email, the weather, and the local news, Sam usually snoops through his regular sources for anything weird or supernatural. He and Dean like to stay informed, even though they don't hunt anymore.

Dean's half-humming, half-singing under his breath as he hand washes the dishes and dries them with a towel. He's always happier after being well-fed, especially now that the road food days are gone. Sam's become even more of a stickler about his and Dean's health since they settled down: diet, exercise, sleep, you name it. He even tried convincing Dean to see a counselor once, but as long as Dean Winchester has all his brain cells, he's not getting within ten feet of a shrink, unless she's hot and wants to see him in the sack. But Dean eats what Sam feeds him and sleeps as long as he wants and exercises most days of the week. Most importantly, he quit drinking for any reason other than enjoyment. It was easier than he had expected. Sam's silent Hush Puppy eyes are enough to change any man, if said man has to live with them indefinitely.

"Nothing new on the grapevine," Sam announces from the couch.

"I don't understand why you monitor the supernatural if you have no intention of getting involved again," Castiel says, needles clicking in his lap. "Doesn't it agitate you to know what's out there without being sure someone's taking care of it?"

Dean and Sam exchange glances from across the expanse of sitting room and kitchen.

"Sometimes," Dean says, looking at Cas. "It bothered me a lot the first year, to tell you the truth. But Sam was right—we're not the only hunters in America. Sure as hell not the youngest anymore. Everybody's gotta retire at some point."

"I'm not questioning your decision to stop hunting," Castiel says, looking up at Dean and meeting his gaze. "I'm just curious why you don't put the past behind you. It may give you greater peace of mind."

"I'm not bothered by knowing," Sam says. "It's sort of like keeping up with the news. Most of it's not good and we can never do anything about it but people still care. You know?"

"Well," Dean says with an awkward expression, raising one shoulder. "I don't actually care that much about the news anymore. But that's just me."

"It is quieter," says Cas. "The supernatural front. In comparison to what it was during your childhood, even."

"Do you stay informed too? With whatever's left of your angel mojo?"

"Not deliberately. I can sense paranormal energy just by being present here, on earth. There has been a change. And not just in comparison to the extremely high level of activity caused by Heaven and Hell during those years."

"Well, we did kick out all the demons," says Dean. "I'm sure that helps. Hey, why do you still have that blanket wrapped around you? You cold?"

Dean crosses the kitchen to the table where Castiel still sits and lays his hand on the angel's forehead. Cool and dry.

Cas looks at him with a mix of mild annoyance and affection. "Thank you for your concern but I'm not as human as I look. I don't get sick."

"My ass," says Dean. "Two winters ago. Remember?" He makes eye contact with Sam for confirmation, then looks back down at Cas.

"That was not what you thought it was," Cas mutters, staring down into his lap at the yarn.

"That was exactly what we thought it was! Maybe you zoned out for most of it, but Sam and I were wide awake the whole two weeks. Actually had me scared there…. And that was just the flu."

"Why do I need a reason for the blanket other than I like it?"

"You don't, I guess," says Dean. But he stands over the angel with his arms crossed over his chest like he's still unconvinced. He looks at Sam, and Sam shrugs. Dean studies Cas. Then, he says, "You wanna go lie down?"

Winchester code for "Do you wanna get into bed and cuddle?" Dean hates the word "cuddle." It's on his personal vocabulary shit list, along with "moist," "feelings," and "syphilis." Regardless of this hate for the proper word, cuddling is something that Dean has not only yielded to doing but something he likes enough to initiate. It's pretty routine now, whether between him and Sam or him and Cas. Dean is convinced Sam and Cas have cuddled a handful of times, when Dean wasn't around. If anybody is sick, sad, lonely, in physical pain, stressed out, or just in the mood, he gets cuddled. Sometimes, two of them will even sleep in the same bed.

"If you have nothing better to do," says Cas, without looking at Dean.

"I got no plans for the next hour or two. Sam?"

"I'm good," Sam says. "I might give Leah a call. I'll take it outside, if you want."

"Up to you," says Dean.

Leah is Sam's part-time girlfriend, a sweet widow of five years who isn't looking to get married again and has chosen to live the rest of her life primarily celibate. She lives in town, goes to church every Sunday, and is the reason Sam started planting sunflowers in the yard every spring. Dean's the one who labeled her "part-time girlfriend," to describe what she is to Sam: mostly a close friend, with very occasional sex, who isn't interested in things changing between them. Neither is Sam. In Dean's opinion, Sam's relationship with Leah is based on the fact that Sam simply likes having a steady female presence in his life, whether it's romantic or sexual or neither.

Dean has a woman too, who lives on her own farm twenty minutes north, except she's less girlfriend and more "friend who likes sex, Dean, and combining the two." Her name's Kendall—and she's an ex-hunter. Dean has to laugh at himself sometimes. Even when he starts over with his life, the past refuses to leave him completely alone. He and Kendall have known each other two years, and Dean has since decided that it's probably for the best that he's going steady with a woman who can understand the whole of him. He doesn't have lie about who he was and who he is or make excuses for it. He's never had that with a woman before. It's the thing he likes most about their relationship.

"All right, Cas," Dean says. "I'm game if you are."

Castiel stops knitting, sets the yarn, needles, and strip of blanket on the table, and sheds the blanket around his shoulders. He's still wearing a pair of flannel pajama pants and a white t-shirt.

Dean takes his hand and leads him into the back of the house where the bedrooms are, shaking his head as they go.

Dean leaves the door of his room cracked open just a sliver, in case Sam decides to have his phone conversation inside. He likes hearing the sound of his brother's voice when they're in different rooms, just for comfort. Castiel climbs onto Dean's bed without pulling back the sheets and duvet. Dean steps out of his slippers and grabs the thick blanket from his reading chair in the corner, opens it up and spreads it over the bed. Outside the windows, he can see the fog still hovering over the fields behind the house. The sky is heavy with clouds the color of No. 2 pencil lead.

Castiel turns onto his right side to be little spoon, his head on one of Dean's pillows. Dean wraps his arm around Castiel's waist and lies close enough that his chest meets Castiel's back, without pressing. He settles in, feels Cas relaxing already, breathes against the skin of his friend's neck and closes his eyes. This is warm and comfortable—and if Dean's honest, one of his favorite places to be, whoever he's with.

Dean and Sam had already been doing this several months when it started with Cas. Dean was hanging out with the angel next door when Castiel suddenly said, "Dean, will you hold me?" And instead of flying off the handle in defense of his heterosexuality, Dean just sort of looked at Cas in vaguely weirded out surprise before saying, "Okay. Where?"

Cas still doesn't show any interest in getting laid—Sam says angels are asexual—but after about a year and a half of living like a human full-time, he apparently developed a real need for physical affection. Dean ended up spending the night with him that first time they cuddled because he could tell Castiel didn't want him to go. It actually wasn't awkward, except when they woke up the next morning and Cas tried to apologize or explain or whatever.

"Dean, I'm aware that this behavior is something you would reserve for your sexual partners, but—"

"It's fine, Cas. Really. We don't have to talk about it." Dean did not mention all the cuddling between him and Sam.

"If you never want to do it again, just tell me."

Dean only contemplated it for a moment. "I don't mind it. You can always ask."

He gets it. He feels a lot better with the affection too. It feeds a part of his soul that sex doesn't touch. When Dean has sex, it's fun and empowering and pleasurable and invigorating. Sex makes him feel alive, makes him feel like a man, makes him feel attractive and desired. When Dean cuddles, it is safe and warm and peaceful and nurturing. Cuddling makes him feel loved and supported and cherished. Sex has always been a great stress reliever for Dean, but cuddling offers him comfort and healing.

Sam and Cas are the most important people in his life now, so if he's going to cuddle with anyone, he feels like it should be them. And after a few years of doing it with them on a regular basis, Dean can't deny that it's brought them closer. He feels closer to them. He feels more loved, more wanted, more secure than he ever has in his life.

It starts to rain. The sound of it on the windowpanes soothes Dean into greater relaxation. Sam's voice faintly materializes from the living room, and Dean smiles. He and Cas breathe slow and steady, in time with each other. Dean keeps his eyes closed and feels the warmth and solidity of Cas against him, Cas's body thinner and smaller than his own. Dean breathes in, his nose at Castiel's neck, and there's that scent again: apples. Green apples. He has no idea where it comes from but he always smells it on Cas.

Dean tilts his head forward, resting his brow in Castiel's hair. He can hear Sam laugh lightly. Castiel breathes in and out, and Dean asks him if he's okay.

Cas says, "Good. I'm good."

Dean pulls him a little closer. After a beat, he says, "You know it's okay that you don't have sex, right?"

Castiel doesn't answer at first. "You mean _you_ think it's okay. Sex is an earthly phenomenon, and I've always had a perspective far greater than that of the average human. I wouldn't make a judgment of any creature's sex habits one way or another."

"I mean, it's cool with me that you don't need it. I'm not secretly judging you for it. Not anymore. Tell you the truth, the older I get…. The less important it is. Not that I'm quitting anytime soon."

Again, the angel is silent. "If I were human, would you feel differently?" he asks.

"You're as close to human as it gets," says Dean. "So I don't think so." He pauses, feeling his belly expand into Castiel's lower back every time he takes a breath. "I don't want you to think you have something to prove to me. I don't want you going against your nature."

"That's very kind of you," says Cas. "Thank you for letting me know. But I wasn't planning on trying it out, regardless of your opinion."

Dean chuckles. "Sorry about that brothel thing. I shouldn't have brought you there. Sam would kill me if he knew about that."

"At least it made you laugh."

Dean smiles. "I'm glad you're with us, Cas."

"Me too."

They don't speak again for some time, Dean's nose barely touching the back of Castiel's neck and Sam's voice drifting in and out of hearing range. The rain continues to fall outside, noise drowning out the sound of their breath.

"Dean," says Cas.

"Mmm."

"Are you happy?"

"What do you mean?" Dean says, eyes still closed and awareness partially faded out in relaxation.

"Are you happy living like this? With Sam. And me. Being a mechanic in a town most people have never heard of."

Dean grins deeply. "I am. Maybe I'm a freak or it—but I am happy. Are you, Cas?"

The angel doesn't answer for a while, and Dean waits patiently. Sam's gentle laugh comes again, the sound of him on his feet now, floorboards creaking.

"I've spent most of my existence not having a concept of happiness," says Castiel. "Now, I can't imagine going back to Heaven. I know I wouldn't be happy there. And I can't imagine a life on earth any different than this one."

"Doesn't really answer the question."

Castiel lays his hand over Dean's where it rests on the angel's chest. He curls his fingers in between Dean's. "I think I'm happy."

Dean smiles. He plants a small kiss on the back of Castiel's neck. Castiel squeezes his hand.

* * *

Most of the arsenal has been cleared out of the Impala's trunk and moved into Dean and Sam's supply room, one of the extra bedrooms they've converted to hold weapons, medical supplies, and supernatural artifacts useful for spells and rituals. Dean still keeps a couple sawed off shotguns, a gasoline canister full of holy water, and extra ammo in the car. He and Sam don't go anywhere without their favorite handguns, but that isn't unusual in these parts. It took a while for them to get used to not sleeping with anything under their pillows. They use their hunting rifles ten times more often than their pistols and often leave them leaning against the wall next to the front door.

The last time they wore their old fed suits, it was to the Tanner wedding two years ago. Their assortment of fake badges and ID cards are piled up in a tin box they keep on a shelf in the supply room. Everybody knows them by their real names. They only have one working cell phone each.

Sam keeps his hair long, an inch past his shoulders, and Dean hasn't quit nagging him about cutting it. Both of them haven't been clean shaven since they settled down. Dean weaves in and out of a full beard to a thick layer of scruff. Sam sticks to the full-grown beard but doesn't give it any real length because if he did, Dean would make him sleep in the woods for looking like a lumberjack caveman. Castiel's hair is a little longer than he kept it during his working angel days and he always has a five o'clock shadow. No more suit and trench coat for the angel. Now, he dresses like the Winchesters.

They haven't been shot, stabbed, cut open, thrown into walls, or beaten by anything other than a belligerent drunk in four years. If they're hurt or seriously ill, they can go to the hospital without hesitating and use their real names and real insurance cards. They've been seeing the doctor in town for an annual physical since they moved here, something they hadn't done since they were kids.

They rarely have nightmares anymore. When they do, their nightmares feel more ordinary, devoid of suffocating terror. Sometimes, Dean crawls into Sam's bed in the middle of the night, when he's woken up from a bad dream. Sometimes, Sam crawls into Dean's. They can never really talk to anyone about what they've been through—not a therapist or a priest or anyone who is unaware that Heaven, Hell, angels, demons, monsters are real—but they've been talking to each other. They've spent more nights holding each other in bed while coming clean on their lifetime's worth of emotional baggage than either brother would ever admit.

The worst of Dean's nights, he lay in Sam's bed and cried for over an hour, about Dad and Hell and Sam in the Cage and Bobby. He cried just like he'd been waiting to do it for forty odd years, messy and sobbing until there wasn't a tear left, and Sam stayed by his side: rubbing Dean's back, cradling him to his chest, making him drink water, kissing Dean's hot forehead and telling him _I love you_ and _Let it out_ and _It's over_. When Dean calmed down to a hiccupping chest, Sam led him into the bathroom, sat him down on the toilet lid, and washed Dean's face with a small towel. Dean looped his arms around Sam's waist, hugged his brother with his face in Sam's belly, while Sam combed fingers through Dean's hair and told him, _You're the strongest person I know._ Reached his hand down to draw circles on Dean's back again. Dean said too softly, _Don't you ever leave me_. And Sam said, _As long as I'm something in this universe, I'll be with you. Dead or alive. _

Sam's own worst night came two weeks later, the anniversary of Jessica's death. He smashed a beer bottle on the front door when he realized that it was already dinnertime and he'd forgotten the day, screamed at his brother that it _wasn't_ okay, then started to cry without warning to their mutual alarm. He made off like he was going to leave on a drive, but the brothers ended up sitting in Sam's truck for almost two hours instead, while Sam cried about being robbed of a mother, wasting the time he had with Dad, Jessica's death, Dad's death, Dean going to Hell, unleashing Lucifer on the world, his time in the Cage, the crimes of his soullessness, and the near lethal guilt it all amounted to. How could he deserve this home with Dean, this peaceful life, after everything he'd done? Part-demon, traitor, killer of his family, Lucifer's personal vessel. Dean, tears down his own cheeks, reached out and took his brother's head in both hands to kiss Sam's cheek, then pressed his forehead against Sam's temple. Wanting all the time to say _I love you_ but the emotion of it felt so huge inside him, the words would've ruined it. Eventually, they went back inside and Dean put Sam to bed with a cup of tea, gripping his brother's hand and singing to him—"Big Love" by Fleetwood Mac, because soft rock always put Sam right to sleep.

Dean's voice like the soft felt of a worn cowboy hat: "Looking out for love, in the night so still. Oh, I'll build you a kingdom in that house on the hill. Looking out for love... Big, big love..."

* * *

They don't have to run. They have nothing left to be afraid of.

* * *

Sam and Dean take turns on the punching bag with the barn doors open to let in the sight, smell, and sound of the rain that won't let up. Their flannel shirts hang on wooden pegs along one wall, meant for horse gear. Dean still has a white sleeveless tank on and his jeans. Sam's torso is bare. They've already gone through rounds of jump rope, push-ups and pull-ups. Sam still does crunches but they're too much for Dean's back. They spot each other on the bag, through the different punches, kicks, knees and elbows. Sam is always on Dean's ass about kneeing the bag; doesn't Sam appreciate the fact that Dean's forty-four, not thirty-four, and his knees have been through enough? When it's Sam's turn, Dean goads him as if little brother's going soft even though they both know Sam brings it just as hard as always.

Thunder cracks in the distance once, twice. Dean stands in the doorway with his shirt on, the first three buttons undone, left leg crossed in front of his right and the toe of his left shoe pointed into the floor. Sam does one more set of push-ups, then joins his brother as he puts his shirt back on. They watch the rain together in silence for a few moments.

"You ever think about getting old?" Dean says.

Sam looks at him. "Not much. Do you?"

"Once in a while. It was never even a possibility until we quit hunting, you know? Didn't think it was anything I had to worry about. Now, I guess it is. Weird."

"We got a long way to go before we're old, Dean."

"I know. That's sort of what scares me."

"Why?"

Dean shrugs a little. "You really think we're still going to be here, doing what we're doing, twenty or thirty years from now?"

"I don't know," says Sam. "Maybe. If we think of something better, we can always do that instead. We can do pretty much anything."

"You really gonna stick around that long?" Dean says, ducking his head. "Pass up the wife and kids?"

"Hey." Sam grips Dean's shoulder in one hand, until Dean looks at him. "Of course I'm sticking around. Will you?"

Dean smiles wistfully and closes his hand around Sam's forearm. "Yeah."

They look back outside into the dim, ashy light and curtain of rain, hands still on each other.

* * *

Sometimes, on cool summer nights, Sam and Dean climb into the Impala just to remember what it felt like for the car to be their home. Dean lies across the front seat and Sam lies across the back, their feet braced against the doors, the windows rolled down to let in the air. They swap memories from all stages of their lives: being kids in motel rooms, good times with Dad, early hunting, the years Sam was away at Stanford, sports games and state fairs and roadside holidays from the years they hunted together, the best hunts they ever went on.

Dean tells the same outrageous sex stories Sam's heard a dozen times, and Sam still groans and laughs and squirms in the backseat as if he's hearing them new. Blondes in baseball fields and brunettes in truck beds and phone stalls in redneck pool halls and redheads in the backseat of the car parked on the beach. Threesomes and married women and young widows and single moms. Women who made him breakfast, who washed his clothes, who didn't ask him to call, who left out their last name, who looked good at the bar and not so much the morning after.

Sam tells Dean about all the nights he spent alone in the Impala the four months Dean was in Hell and how he used to draw the constellations on the car ceiling with soft pencils, change them with the sky, talking out loud to Dean as if somehow his brother could hear him. He always retraced the north star, drew it big and bright, the only one that never moves—because if he couldn't raise Dean from the dead, maybe Dean would come home on his own. He just needed a little guidance.

Do you remember that pizza in Mystic, Connecticut? Do you remember that blues bar in Mississippi? Do you remember that pumpkin microbrew in Maine? Do you remember those lies we told in the hospital when you got stabbed in the shoulder? Do you remember that game of pool you hustled at the Roadhouse and the fight afterward and how we thought for a minute we were going to lose? Do you remember getting shoved into that swamp in South Florida and how you couldn't lose the smell for a week? Do you remember that stupid argument we had in '07 and how we didn't speak to each other for two straight weeks and how it was all over when you made me laugh? Do you remember how we used to heat French Dip sandwiches on the car engine when we couldn't find a diner or stop for a kitchen?

Do you remember Dad? Do you remember the crinkles around his eyes when he laughed? Do you remember the way he ordered a drink? Do you remember what he smelled like when he was clean? Do you remember when he could pick us both up at the same time and carry us around? Do you remember that one year when he actually gave us a real Christmas? Do you remember when he taught you how to drive the Impala? Do you remember what he looked like the last time we were all together?

Do you remember Bobby? Do you remember Bobby's house? Do you remember the way his library smelled? Do you remember how drunk we used to get together? Do you remember when we raced each other around the salvage yard in those two fixed-up muscle cars and almost gave him a heart attack? Do you remember when we tried to do Thanksgiving there, for real? Do you remember the way he used to talk shit about us but you could always tell he didn't mean it?

Do you remember Ellen and Jo and Ash? Do you remember Missouri Mosley? And Pamela? And Bela and Henrickson and Chuck? Do you remember Adam? Do you remember Mom in Heaven? Do you remember her ghost?

Then Sam and Dean go quiet again because they're the only ones left alive, and there's no use in saying someone else should've gotten this far in their place. One brother lifts up his hand, and the other takes it in his, over the front seatback. They hold onto each other and know that it was always like this and always will be, until they die for the last time and wake up on their endless two-lane asphalt, heaven not so different from the life they shared.

It's the two of them in this car. Forever and ever.

* * *

Sam starts making dinner while Cas and Dean watch _Cool Hand Luke_ in the living room. Dean says all the coolest lines out loud, just like always, and sometimes Sam says them too, in light mockery of his brother. But he doesn't tease Dean for sitting with his arm around Castiel and the angel's head on his shoulder. When the movie's over, Dean switches off the DVD player with the remote and stays where he is on the couch with Cas, the sound of the rain audible again. It's getting dark; Sam's already flipped the light on in the kitchen.

"We could turn this into a real ranch," Dean says.

Sam turns to look at him. "What?"

"If we ever got tired of working the jobs we got now. We could turn this place into a real ranch. Raise horses. Or buy a new place somewhere east, where the land's flat. Cattle ranch. Be real cowboys."

Sam shakes his head, almost smiling. "Dean, do you know how old you are?"

"Shut up, there are old ranchers all over this country. Back me up here, Cas."

"Ranching seems like a lot of work," Castiel offers. "You'd need to hire help."

"Maybe."

"Definitely," says Sam. "And then we'd have to pay them. What the hell do you know about animals, Dean?"

"A man can learn."

Sam waves him off.

"Or we could start a farm," Dean says. "Grow things, keep some chickens and whatever else we want."

"Why don't you stick with cars, man," says Sam. "You're good with cars."

"You're such a buzzkill. My God."

"I think Sam's idea of aging is peace and quiet, not more work," Cas says.

"Nobody's aging here for at least another fifteen to twenty years! Just don't blow it off completely, all right? Sam."

"I'll think about it, Dean," Sam says.

"That's all I ask."

A few minutes later, when Sam moves from the kitchen counter to retrieve something in the refrigerator, he sees Dean and Cas cuddled up together on the couch, Castiel's head on Dean's shoulder and Dean's head resting against his friend's. Their eyes are closed. Sam grins, makes a rectangle with his thumbs and forefingers, and clicks his right forefinger as if pressing the button on a camera.

* * *

Around ten thirty, after dinner and TV, Sam draws his brother a hot bath. The tub in Dean's bathroom is huge, enough for either one of the Winchester brothers to soak in it comfortably. They special ordered the tub after Dean started having chronic back pain the first year they lived in Wyoming. Too much driving for one lifetime, exacerbated by the countless times he was thrown across a room into a wall or onto the floor or through glass. He's better now, a lot better. Sam has been the most attentive nursemaid, with the baths and massages and muscle salves and giant U-shaped body pillow that Dean didn't want them to buy because it was near two hundred bucks. Half the time when Sam's the big spoon, it's to give Dean's back the relief of resting against Sam's body.

The truth is that Sam takes Dean's health so seriously now because he's afraid of something going wrong with it, where before neither of them cared much because they didn't expect to live long anyway. Sam's smart enough to know that all the damage they both sustained in their youth is more than likely to come back and bite them in the ass when they're senior citizens. They should've been more careful, should've taken it easy more often, should've treated their injuries more extensively. It's a miracle that they both came out of hunting with all their limbs, full brain function, no paralysis. Sam is still thanking God in his prayers for the good luck.

He fills Dean's tub with hot water, almost too hot the way Dean likes it, then adds a generous amount of table salt and several drops of lavender oil. The salt is for Dean's muscles and a cleansing of his energy. The lavender is for relaxation. He swipes his hand into the bath to check the water temperature. White candles burn in all corners of the bathroom because Sam developed dozens of little habits over the last four years to soothe his brother away from PTSD and into good sleep. When he lights candles for his brother, he invokes protection and peace, without knowing who he's asking because God's an absentee father and most of the angels he's met are all uncaring dicks. Nevertheless, Sam just can't help but believe in something or someone, even if he doesn't know what it is. He believes because he needs to feel like someone more powerful than he is, is watching over Dean.

"I feel like I'm being seduced every time I walk in here," Dean says as he enters the bathroom. He's wearing that ridiculous plush white bath robe he impulse-bought when he and Sam drove to Casper one time.

Sam rolls his eyes. "A simple _thank you, Sam_ would be acceptable, jackass."

"No, but seriously—tell me you haven't done this for a woman at least once in your in life."

Sam stands up from where he was sitting on the lip of the tub and ignores his brother. He's never drawn a bath for a woman in his life. The closest he ever got was buying Jessica's favorite bubble bath mix, before she could do it herself. "I'll come check on you in thirty minutes," he says, because Dean has fallen asleep in the tub more than once. "I'm gonna make myself some tea. You want any?"

"Chamomile," says Dean.

Sam nods and shuts the door behind him.

* * *

Dean drinks his tea in the wide leather chair in the corner of his bedroom. When he's finished, he pads next door to Sam's room, peeps in to see his brother asleep with the lamp still on and a book open face down over his stomach. Dean takes the book, sticks the cardboard marker in it, and sets it on the night table. He turns out the lamp, then presses a kiss to Sam's forehead.

Lying in his own bed in the dark, Dean whispers, "Good night, Cas."

Stretched out on his sofa in the house next door, Castiel smiles and says, "Good night, Dean."


End file.
